the wooden bench that cradles my frame
allows the unadulterated spring winds
to run chills through my clothes.
the newspaper in your hands crinkles and folds
in accordance with the heartbeat
of the elderly woman beside you.

my tea gets cold faster than I can drink it
and my fingertips feel the bite of the wind
where the cup once protected them.
I like it out here.

the light in your eyes flares and I can't look away
but you look down and say it's time to go.
the sun takes its final bow
and the clouds linger too long
when the curtain of sunset
finally falls on the horizon.